


For a Smile They Can Share the Night (On and On and On)

by Thats_Amore



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, Confessions, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Excessive Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Lithuania/Female Human OC, Nationverse, Prohibition, Roaring 20s Trio, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thats_Amore/pseuds/Thats_Amore
Summary: America, Lithuania, and Romano go home after spending the evening at a speakeasy. America and Romano don't feel like going off to bed right away, and dancing together in America's living room leads to important revelations.
Relationships: America & Lithuania & South Italy (Hetalia), America/South Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	For a Smile They Can Share the Night (On and On and On)

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Don't Stop Believin' by Journey. The Lithuania/fem!OC slightly hints at possible unresolved LietPol feelings if you tilt your head and squint, but it doesn't have to be interpreted that way. The homophobia mentioned in the tags never appears on screen and does not come from any of the canon characters.

America careens down the sidewalk drunkenly with Lithuania slung under his right arm and South Italy under his left. When their sort-of boss (though he never really behaves like one) starts laughing at the moon for no apparent reason, South Italy makes desperate eye contact with Lithuania, hoping that he will know why America has lost all traces of whatever sanity he may have once possessed. Lithuania can only return his worried glance.

America finally pauses, takes a deep breath, and grins sloppily first at Lithuania, then Romano. “You two fellas are probably the best friends I’ve ever had.”

Romano frowns right back at him, concerned, but confrontational nonetheless. “That’s kind of sad, bastard.” Neither he nor Lithuania have been acquainted with America for more than ten years. Shouldn’t his best friend be someone like England, who raised him? Or France, who has been his ally for a really long time?

America blinks at him in confusion for a moment, then makes a dismissive noise. “I’m not sad. I’m happy. You’re happy, aren’t you Lithuania?” He whips his head around to make eye contact with the other nation.

A soft, thoughtful smile appears on Lithuania’s face. “Yeah. I am happy, Mr. America.” It sounds like he just came to this conclusion.

“Yeah, you had fun tonight dancing with that blonde gal, what was her name? Something with an A, I think? It sounded kinda like Agnes, but it was different.”

“Agnieszka,” Lithuania says, the name rolling off his tongue smoothly. “It’s the Polish form of Agnes. Her family recently immigrated from Warsaw.”

America nods to himself. “Ah, okay. _Agnieszka_.” Romano can tell by the way Lithuania scrunches his nose that America must have gotten the pronunciation wrong, but Lithuania doesn’t bother to correct him. America smirks and squeezes Lithuania’s shoulder. “You know something, Lithuania? I think she thought _you_ were the cat’s pajamas.”

Lithuania demurs, turning his head away with a shy laugh. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“She did! She looked awful disappointed when you told her you had to get back home. Don’t you think so, Romano?”

Romano rolls his eyes. Why on Earth is America involving him in this conversation about some woman who may or may not have a crush on Lithuania? But America is staring at him expectantly, so he is compelled to respond.

“Maybe,” he concedes reluctantly. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. Because of who we are, it’s not like we can have a normal romance.” He glances past America towards Lithuania, caring for once that he wasn’t too blunt and harsh. Lithuania doesn’t seem to be any sadder than he was before, so he flicks his gaze back to America to see how he responds.

“Ah well, I suppose that’s true.” As always, America returns to his characteristic optimism. “But you still had fun tonight, didn’t you, Lithuania?”

“I did,” Lithuania confirms with a grin.

“You too, ‘Mano?”

Romano snorts. “The music was pretty good. The drinks were surprisingly decent, considering that the gin was probably made in somebody’s bathtub.”

As Lithuania chuckles, America giggles and tilts his entire body towards Romano, shifting his weight as well. “Oh God, Lovino, you’re hilarious. I really like you a lot, you know.”

He does know. He knows that he’s apparently one of America’s best friends. But he doesn’t know how to react when America gets like this, all drunk and overly affectionate to the point of clinging to Romano and using his human name, a mark of intimacy that nations usually reserve for family or significant others. South Italy’s face heats up, and he can’t get a word out of his tongue-tied mouth.

“We’re almost home,” Lithuania announces suddenly, and Romano silently thanks the Virgin Mother. Any more of that awkward silence would have killed him.

They turn the corner, make their way a bit further down the sidewalk, and end up at America’s front door. America pats down his shirt, and then his trouser pockets, finally manages to locate his keys, and tries a couple of incorrect keys before he finds the correct one to unlock the door.

Lithuania slips out easily from underneath America’s hold and enters the house first. America slumps further onto South Italy’s shoulder, and they follow Lithuania through the entry hall into the spacious living room.

Lithuania yawns and loosens his tie. “I’m beat. I think I’ll head off to bed. Goodnight, guys.”

They tell him good night, and he leaves and closes the door to the living room behind him. His footsteps echo audibly up the staircase as America and Romano turn to face each other.

“He’s probably worn out from dancing so much with Agnieszka,” America concludes.

Romano hums in agreement and fiddles with a cufflink absentmindedly.

“I don’t suppose you’d be as worn out from dancing as he is,” America says. There’s an odd tone to his voice; he almost sounds coy. Flirtatious, a dangerous part of Romano’s mind whispers.

Romano narrows his eyes. “Alright, spit it out. What the hell are you playing at?”

America smiles at him hopefully. “Dance with me?”

Romano sighs and extends his right hand, and America takes it quickly before he can change his mind. “There’s no music,” Romano points out, just so he won’t seem too eager.

America shakes his head as he starts to lead them in a partner version of the Charleston. “I don’t think we need it, do you?” He hums quietly, and that substitutes well enough for actual music. There’s a phonograph in the room, but playing a record on it would be rude to Lithuania, who’s trying to sleep upstairs.

They dance the Charleston for a bit until they decide to switch over to something else. Romano suggests the tango, and America lets him lead since Romano knows this dance better. As America gets comfortable, Romano adds in a few embellishments like simple taps, hooking his leg briefly over America’s, and a couple feint steps. Romano practically chokes on air when he feels America’s loafer rubbing against the side of his calf through his trousers.

“You knew this dance better than you were pretending to,” he accuses, leading them into a turn.

America shrugs impishly. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

Romano growls out the word “coglione.” Not because he’s irritated that America actually did know something about tango, but because he cannot hide how flustered that little leg rub made him, not when their faces are in potential kissing range (which he should _not_ be thinking about, damn it!).

Eventually, the tango devolves into a glorified sway, something too lazy to be considered a proper dance at all, and America is leading once again. South Italy rests his head against America’s shoulder as they move side to side.

America’s hand drifts onto the small of Romano’s back, and Romano closes his eyes. This embrace feels… comfortable, somehow. Maybe a little too comfortable, but right now, Romano is too buzzed from homemade alcohol to concern himself with things like propriety.

“I wish I could’ve danced like this with you at the club,” America confesses. “But you know how people are. They get weird about two men dancing together.”

Romano’s grip reflexively tightens on America’s hand. “People are stupid.” For their kind, it’s never been a big deal. When you’ve lived through centuries of wars and conquest, the mere implication of potential homosexuality isn’t remotely shocking. And since most of them are men, the brief, fleeting moments of companionship that exist among nations are shared between men more often than not.

But it is a problem for humans, in this time and in this place. If it wouldn’t cause a major scandal, it could at least ruin an evening if America and Romano danced together in the wrong speakeasy, among the wrong people. Here in America’s living room, with only Lithuania as a potential witness if he came back downstairs for some reason, they’re safe to dance for as long and as closely as they wish.

“I haven’t danced with another guy in a long time,” America continues. He sounds carefree, not remotely sad like he was a mere moment ago. “Not since England was teaching me how to dance when I was a colony. God, I used to step on his feet all the time.”

Romano smirks. “The eyebrow bastard must’ve hated that.” He can picture how England must have looked back then, with those gargantuan eyebrows drawn down into a scowl as he scolded a younger, certainly much smaller America. It’s an amusing image.

“He did. He tried not to get too frustrated with me when I was really little, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. I could never quite get the hang of the English country dances, and I was hopeless at the fancy French stuff he tried to teach me. I was always better with more casual, fun dances like the Charleston or stuff my people came up with like Appalachian square dancing.”

America had just proved how good he was at the Charleston and the tango. Even though he was three sheets to the wind, he hadn’t stepped on Romano’s feet once. He might never fit in with snooty Europeans who only prized particular dances, but America was a good dancer.

“I’m the best in the world at the tarantella,” South Italy bragged. “Nobody else can dance a tarantella as well as I can.” Not even Spain, who had danced it with him when Romano was a small child. Romano wasn’t normally this confident, but he took special pride in the tarantella. His brother could truthfully claim much of what people valued about Italy, but the tarantella was a _southern_ Italian folk dance. It’s his cultural touchstone, not Feliciano’s.

“That sounds like it would be really cool to see. I would love it if you showed it to me sometime.” America doesn’t just sound polite; he seems genuinely interested.

“I will,” Romano says, puffing up with pride. “Probably some time when you haven’t been out drinking, so you won’t forget it later.”

America chuckles. “From what you’ve said, I don’t think I’d be able to, no matter how plastered I got.” He sniffed at something in the air. “Hey, what’s that stuff you’re wearing? It smells really good.”

“It’s Acqua di Parma Colonia.”

“Pretty name. It smells like lemon, with some earthier stuff underneath. I like it.” America didn’t speak for a while but continued to sway them gently. “You know, dancing with you… it feels different than dancing with England, somehow.”

“Because I smell like lemons instead of burnt scones?” Romano jokes, trying to keep the mood lighthearted, which this evening has mostly been, aside from a couple serious moments.

“No, that’s not it,” America replies. “I’ve never… Fuck, I’m so bad at this.”

Abruptly, America pulls his hands away from Romano and takes a giant step backwards. He turns away to face the wall, and Romano can’t see his stupidly beautiful face anymore. He feels strangely lonely when he can’t gaze into America’s blue eyes or feel his hand on the small of his back.

“America, why are you—”

“The last time I danced with England, I was so young,” America explains. Romano is alarmed by the way his voice cracks in the middle of that sentence. He might even be crying. “I was too young to want things, especially from my guardian. But now I’m older, and I’m with you, and everything feels different and kind of terrifying.”

“You… you want things? From me?” Dio, Romano had assumed that America only acted extra affectionate to him when he was tanked because he was one of those silly, happy drunks who loved everybody. He hadn’t thought there was anything real behind it.

Romano moves closer, reaching up to gently touch America’s shoulder. America turns around to face him without much coaxing.

America’s eyes are shiny behind his glasses. His lower lip is trembling, and he looks like he’s going to crumble at any second. He’s vulnerable, and so inexperienced at being vulnerable in this particular way that he hadn’t learned to hide it the way older nations like South Italy have.

“You… you’re my friend. You’re funny, and you make my heart beat faster than it should, and I wanted to dance with you tonight ‘cause you look prettier than any of the dames I’ve seen in any of the joints we’ve gone to. I really wanna kiss you right now, but I’ve never kissed anybody before and wouldn’t know how to do it right.”

Romano needs a second to think, to recover from the shock of what America said. But he doesn’t take long to hesitantly voice an offer. “I could… I could show you, if you want.” It’s a big thing, to take someone’s first kiss, but this feels right. America said he wants to kiss him, and if Romano is being honest with himself, he must admit that he’s thought about kissing America before, and not just tonight.

America’s answer is obvious from his bright grin and the eager gleam in his eyes. “You will?”

Romano rolls his eyes. “Only if you close your mouth, caro.”

America obediently does so, still smiling at him with a closed mouth. Romano holds back his own fond grin, takes a deep inhale through his nose, and stretches up on his tiptoes to press his mouth on top of America’s.

America is inexperienced, and it shows in the way he freezes up at first and how gently he places his fingertips on the nape of Romano’s neck, like he isn’t sure if that’s something he’s allowed to do. When he finally relaxes into the kiss, he surrenders beautifully, opening his mouth immediately when Romano nibbles delicately at the plush skin of his lower lip. America may be inexperienced and a bit submissive because of that, but he clearly wants more, so Romano continues. When Romano slides his tongue into America’s mouth, tasting a combination of liquors that should be disgusting but somehow isn’t, he whimpers and clutches urgently at the back of his neck. He starts to give as good as he’s getting, and Romano has to end the kiss before he ends up pushing America up against something and taking his virginity too.

America’s face is stained scarlet when Romano opens his eyes. He appears shocked and overwhelmed. “Whoa. That was… I don’t even have words to describe it. I’m pretty sure most people don’t kiss each other like that.”

“Of course not,” Romano informs him smugly. “You should consider yourself lucky. I’m one of the best.”

America gives him a sappy look. “I do consider myself lucky. I really, really like you, Lovino.”

“I like you too, Alfred.”

America lets out a little squeal. “You just called me by my first name!”

Lovino coughs awkwardly, embarrassed at the gleeful way Alfred pointed this out. “Yeah, well, things are different now.” After sharing a kiss, it’s only appropriate to call America by his human name.

“They are.” Alfred bites at his lower lip, looking hopeful and flustered all over again. “Do you, uh, maybe wanna go upstairs with me?”

Lovino is tempted. America is gorgeous, and he would consent eagerly to anything Romano wanted, but he has also been drinking more than he should this evening. Even if that weren’t true, it wouldn’t be right to take America’s first kiss and his virginity in a single night.

Ultimately, Romano’s conscience overrules his libido. “I think we should wait,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”

America bursts into a fit of giggles. “You… you’re serious, aren’t you? Oh gosh, I never thought you’d be so old-fashioned.”

Lovino huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not old-fashioned. I’m just trying to be considerate, damn it.”

“Aww, I’m sorry. It’s sweet. I’m glad you care about me so much.” Alfred’s laughter dies down eventually, and Lovino uncrosses his arms, no longer annoyed thanks to America’s lingering smile and the fact that America is no longer calling him a fuddy-duddy with outdated values. “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, but we can wait if it would make you feel better.”

Romano nods firmly. “It would.”

“In the meantime, I don’t see any reason why we can’t kiss again.” America shuffles closer, hands moving to hold Lovino’s hips. If this is his playful attempt at subtlety, it’s failing spectacularly. “As a reminder of what I’m waiting for.”

Lovino frowns and tugs him forward by his tie. “You better remember this in the morning, bastard.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I will.” America closes the gap between them this time, and Lovino barely has time to close his eyes before Alfred’s tongue confidently slips into his mouth. Gesù, he’s a quick learner. America manages to pull a ragged gasp out of his throat, and then he pulls away suddenly, leaving Romano frustrated in both senses of the word.

Alfred licks his lips, and Lovino has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from pouncing on the smug, seductive asshole. He’s got to be doing that intentionally. “Good night, amore,” Romano says, voice strong with a conviction that’s rapidly slipping away from him the longer he’s in the same room with America.

Alfred winks at him and grins. “Buona notte to you too, baby doll.” He whistles to himself as he strolls away, and Lovino stands there, gaping after Alfred like a fish tossed out onto dry land. _Baby doll_. America is going to be the death of him.

Romano waits a few minutes for America to go back to his bedroom and for his heart rate to calm down, because _what the hell_ , it’s never reacted like that before. Once he’s sure the most confident virgin in the world is safely behind his bedroom door, Lovino makes his way upstairs, heading down the hallway past America’s and Lithuania’s rooms to the room America offered him when he first moved into his house.

Lovino gets ready for bed, shedding his clothes and dumping them in a pile to deal with later. He’ll wash off the booze and cologne tomorrow, and he’ll deal with his clothes then too. It’s not like he’ll sleep in or sleep at all after the night he’s had.

What a wonderful night it was. If America remembers the evening (which it seems like he will), remembers that Romano likes him too, remembers that they shared two passionate kisses and that this is leading somewhere promising both physically and emotionally, it will be an even better morning for both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I peppered America's speech with a bit of 1920s slang I got from this [website](http://mollsanddolls.blogspot.com/2007/10/1920s-slang-dictionary.html). I didn't do that for Lithuania or Romano, since I think they wouldn't pick up on new American slang as easily as a native English speaker.
> 
> 2\. Due to prohibition, alcohol, including gin, often had to be manufactured in conditions that resulted in poor quality. Many gin cocktails were created to disguise the taste of the alcohol.
> 
> 3\. A variety of French dances as well as English country dances were popular during the "Baroque" period America was England's colony. In the 1920s, the tango and the Charleston were popular. I made Romano slightly better at the tango since it gave the guys an opportunity to switch off who led the dance.
> 
> 4\. Acqua di Parma Colonia was first introduced in 1916. The top note is Sicilian citrus.
> 
> 5\. [Underground gay clubs](https://www.history.com/news/gay-culture-roaring-twenties-prohibition) flourished during the 1920s in major cities. America wouldn't have to worry about dancing with Romano in one of those, but the club they went to in the fic was just a regular speakeasy.


End file.
